


The Drunken Scotsman

by Greysgate



Series: The Immortal Beloved Series [1]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Drunken Scotsman, F/M, Inspired by Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-05 03:22:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14608182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greysgate/pseuds/Greysgate
Summary: The "true" story of the legend behind the folk music song.





	The Drunken Scotsman

**Author's Note:**

> The song that inspired this fic can be found on one of the Dr. Demento collections of musical comedy from the 60's and 70's. I'll put up exact information as I run across it, but the man who sings it (Mike Cross) has a wonderful, clear voice, and obviously enjoys singing it. I love this song! It's a great traditional pub song among Irish bands in my area.
> 
> Lyrics at the bottom.
> 
> Originally published in 1995 under the name Victoria Rivers

_Early morning is always the best time for reflection,_ thought Duncan MacLeod as he stood over his stove preparing a hearty breakfast for himself. Suddenly his head came up and he turned toward the elevator seconds before the machinery kicked into gear to bring the car up to his floor. He guessed who would be greeting him from inside the slatted gate, and a whistled tune wafting up the shaft confirmed his visitor's identity. Duncan turned back to making breakfast and brought out a few more eggs to add to the pan for his guest.  
  
Richie Ryan smiled as he exited the car, a merry twinkle in his eyes. He hung his jacket on the coat rack and greeted his friend and mentor with a cheerful good morning.

"Hey, Mac, is it really true about kilts? I mean, what you wear underneath."  
  
Duncan chuckled and replied in a strong Scottish brogue. "Come tae Scotland wi' me fer the Highland Games this summer an' I'll let ye discover tha' fer yersel', lad."  
  
"So you're not gonna tell me." Richie opened the cupboard in the kitchen as familiarly as if it was his own home, and fetched a pair of plates.  
  
Duncan grinned down at the pan as he stirred the fluffy yellow cloud congealing against the hot metal. "Why the sudden interest in Scottish dress?" he asked in his normal, indefinable accent.  
  
Richie opened the refrigerator and took out a jug of orange juice. "I was at Joe's last night and this guy was singing about a Scotsman..."  
  
The dark-haired man stopped scraping eggs out onto the plate, glanced over his shoulder sharply at his young friend, and then sighed resignedly as he finished serving the food.  
  
"You should probably leave town for a few days, Richie. If the singer is who I think, he's going to be looking for me and you don't want to get in his way. Last time we crossed paths, he stole Tessa and I almost didn't get her back. He's an Immortal, right?"  
  
Richie picked up his plate and sat down on the sofa to eat, setting his glass of juice on a coaster on the coffee table before him. "Yeah. Name's Mike Cross. I take it you know this guy?"  
  
Duncan swallowed his first bit of breakfast before making his reply. "His real name is Finn MacCool, and you'd be smart to keep your distance from him. Particularly if you don't want to become a historical novelty."  
  
"So has Finn got it in for you? He seemed nice enough."  
  
"Oh, he is. He's just got a dangerous sense of humor."  
  
"Ordinarily I'd love to stick around for the fireworks, but I've got a date for the weekend in the country. I guess you'll have to tell me about it when I get back."  
  
Duncan nodded approvingly. "Just watch your back until you're well away from the city. Finn has been known to draft mortals into doing his mischief for him at times..."  
  
**_1632, Wales_**  
  
It had been a long and pleasant association between the two MacLeod clansmen, but Connor had it in his mind to go north again, back to Scotland, and Duncan wanted to see more of the world. They wandered into a village near Cardiff and the sea, and in a lowly tavern Connor broke into a broad grin as he spied a traveling minstrel tuning his lute, readying it to entertain the crowd in the smoky, dimly lit room. Finn MacCool was an old friend, and he tossed a coin to the serving wench with a nod toward the two men settling into a table near the fireplace, buying them their first round of drinks.  
  
Connor sipped at his ale slowly, warily keeping watch on the man who so easily entertained the crowd of rugged Welsh miners and sailors from everywhere in the southlands and beyond. It was to be a night of celebration for the three Immortals, a night of brotherhood and merriment, and by the time the minstrel was done with his work, young Duncan had become roundly drunk. The elder MacLeod's hand was still steady, his blue eyes still watchful, knowing as he did that he must keep his head and watch out for his kinsman's as well.   
  
Finn sat at their table until late, the three of them discussing possible courses for the youngest of them to take on the next leg of his journey, and Duncan finally decided he would take ship in the morning and try his hand at becoming a sailor. He offered up his good-byes, but Connor reminded him with a stern glance and a firm grip on his shoulder that he was in no condition to wander off alone. They bade Finn a good night and left the tavern, heading for the nearest inn some distance down the road.   
  
Swaying and stumbling, Duncan begged a moment of rest not far down the road, barely able to keep his feet. He staggered off the well-worn road, sat down heavily in the lush summer grass near the edge of a patch of woods, and promptly fell over. He sprawled out in leaden bliss to sleep off his night of celebration, and Connor followed him, shaking his head.   
  
From the shelter of the nearby trees where Connor had gone to attend some business of his own, the sensation of warning snapped up his head and brought him back to stand over the younger man, his sword bared and ready for action.  
  
"Tis your old friend, Connor," called Finn, crossing the grassy sward to join the elder MacLeod with a smile and a wink tossed in the general direction of the younger Scot. "Looks like Duncan has had a wee bit more than he'll be happy with in the mornin'."   
  
"Aye. His head will make a suitable anchor by sunup for any ship in the harbor," Connor answered with a smile. "Come and talk with me a bit, old friend. Duncan will be all right where we can see him."  
  
The two men moved off into the trees, chuckling at the mumbled dreams of the man stretched out in the grass, and turned their backs to the road, well hidden from casual view by the shadows and foliage. Once they finished their business and were headed back toward the clearing, the sound of voices stopped them and they listened to assess whatever threat might be about to appear.  
  
But the voices were high-pitched and musical, and after a moment the two men could make out a pair of young women hurrying along the road toward the inn. Connor and Finn grinned at each other and turned to compete in a silent contest with their fingers to determine which of them would leave guard duty and follow the lovely young things to wherever they were going. Unescorted ladies would be pleased to have a man walk with them for protection, and if they were the right sort of girls, then a reward might be expected for getting them safely home.  
  
The men froze as the sound of voices hushed, followed suddenly by a pair of gasps. They watched in wonder as the women stood in the road by the clearing, frosted with moonglow, their eyes fixed on the reclining figure in the grass. They pointed at Duncan, whispering together, and one of them took a cautious step forward.  
  
"Look at that, Gwyneth!" said the first lass. "A Scotsman in full kilt. I wonder what he's doing here, so far from home?"  
  
Gwyneth craned her neck to get a better look at the man's face in the moonlight. "He's probably just a drunken sailor come off a new ship. Looks as if he's passed right out, Rose. You can smell the ale from here."  
  
Rose smiled secretively and glanced at her friend. She took another step toward the still form of the stranger. "He's quite lovely anyway, isn't he? Right strong and romantic-looking, if you ask me." She giggled, her mouth suddenly hidden girlishly behind her hand. "I wonder if all those stories about wild Scotsmen are true. You know, about the kilts."  
  
Gwyneth's mouth dropped open in surprise, but her eyes gleamed with merriment. "Oh, Rose, I wonder, too!"  
  
Rose took another step forward, halfway between the road and his feet. "Do you suppose we could find out for ourselves? He's not likely to waken."  
  
Gwyneth looked up and down the road, all around to make sure they were quite alone. She grinned broadly and nodded in enthusiastic agreement. The two women crept up on Duncan, squatted slowly down beside him, still glancing furtively about for watchers, and slowly lifted the hem of that enticing kilt. They tried desperately to smother their immodest giggles, utterly delighted with their discovery.  
  
"We should go before someone comes up the road," whispered Gwyneth. "We'd be ruined forever!"  
  
"Ooh, I think I already am," cooed Rose happily. She sighed. "Let's leave him something, just to let him know we were here."  
  
Gwyneth gasped, then leaned toward her friend conspiratorially. "What, then? Oh, Rose, we are too wicked!" Her smile hurt her cheeks, it was so broad, and she could hardly keep from laughing.  
  
"The ribbon from my hair!" suggested Rose. "What do you think?"  
  
"Yes, let's! He'll be so shocked," agreed Gwyneth. "Hurry, Rose. We must be off home."  
  
The ladies worked quietly, stealthily, and in a moment they rushed away from their hapless victim, a trail of sparkling laughter floating on the night breeze behind them.  
Connor and Finn broke out in the guffaws they had been holding back, recounting the event with relish. They waited for Duncan to rouse, but after a while decided that he was gone for the night and settled themselves in the nearby trees for a little sleep. It was a pleasant spring evening, neither too warm nor too cool, and before long all three travelers were safely in the arms of Morpheus, recovering from the day's toil.  
  
As dawn began to color the sky, Finn awakened and began to hum the tune that had been brewing in his dreams. He nudged Connor as Duncan roused, and the two of them watched the dark Scot sit up groggily, holding onto his pounding head, scratching, yawning and looking around for the nearest spot to perform his morning duties. He lurched to his feet and stumbled toward the trees, chose a suitable bush to hide himself from the road, and lifted his kilt in preparation for answering Nature's call.  
He stared. His eyes grew round, his mouth dropped slowly open, and he mumbled something softly to himself. From the trees nearby he heard a sudden yelp of laughter and turned to find Finn rolling on the ground, slapping his thighs, tears sparkling at the corners of his eyes as he pointed at the bewildered Scot. Connor chuckled softly, shaking his head in mirthful resignation.  
  
"That's the best, Duncan MacLeod!" the Irishman shrieked. "You're going to be famous, me boy! I'll immortalize you in song, but you'll have to wait till I've got it all written before I tell you the rest of the story. I hope you keep your head for a long, long, time. I'll be lookin' you up regular just to make sure you do. Bless me, I've never seen better!"  
  
Duncan glanced sheepishly downward. "You did this, Finn? What's it mean?" He glanced at Connor when the Irishman continued to laugh softly, wiping tears from his eyes as he stretched and picked up his lute, strumming the tune of his new song. "Give me a minute and I'll have the rhyme finished. You'll love it, boyo!"  
  
Duncan shrugged, retrieved the ribbon and tied back his hair with it before going about his business.

* * *

He did _not_ love that song. Every few decades when he had the misfortune to run into the minstrel, Finn would embarrass him, startle him, frustrate him and generally annoy him with his pranks and lopsided humor. Tessa loved the old reprobate and made it a point to invite Finn into their home, even joined the Irishman in the jokes he played on Duncan. Every hundred years or so Finn laid the song to rest for a few generations, just so he would have the pleasure of resurrecting it again.   
  
Sometime in the 60's or early 70's someone even recorded it, but except at an occasional Celtic music festival no one heard it much anymore. And as long as Finn wasn't singing it, Duncan would have the grace of anonymity, knowing that no one knew the song stemmed from his own personal history. He started packing a duffel bag with a few things, planning to make a quick trip to his cabin on the island for a while, hoping to be gone long enough to avoid a chance meeting with the Irishman. It was time he succeeded at that, at least.  
  
Two blocks from his house a car skidded through a stop sign and slid into the intersection in front of him. Unable to stop but braking hard, his front bumper glanced off the driver's door on a '94 Mustang, coming to rest in the middle of the intersection. Traffic all around them ceased for a moment, then began filtering past in hesitant spurts. Duncan got out of his car and walked quickly over to check on the driver of the other vehicle, who was nowhere to be seen. He felt the sudden thrill demanding his attention, and knew that he had crashed into another of his own kind.  
  
He found her lying sideways across the front seats, a mass of red hair hiding her face. She wasn't moving.  
  
"We didn't hit hard enough for me to kill you," he said dryly, squeezing past the front end of his car to lean into the open window of hers. "And I think we can dispense with any whiplash claims as well."  
  
The woman moved her hair back from her face with a sweep of her fingers and pushed slowly back to a sitting position with a stifled groan. "I'm okay, just a little shaken," she replied, keeping her eyes straight forward for a moment. She laid her hands on the steering wheel, gripped it hard and looked up at the man who had hit her.  
Duncan mumbled a Gaelic curse under his breath when he got a good look at her face.  
  
His fingertips reached up instinctively to touch his forehead, but he caught himself on the downstroke and stifled the sign of the cross. He wasn't the superstitious barbarian he had been born as, and didn't need to ask for protection from the Devil any longer. Besides, this was no devil staring back at him. This was an angel -- the very image of his first love, Debra Campbell.  
  
He shook off the memory from the past quickly, though traces of it haunted the corners of his conscious as he tried to keep his mind on the situation. "We should clear the intersection before traffic gets too bad," he suggested. "Let's pull into that parking lot over there, all right?"  
  
"Trade driver's licences first," she countered, reaching for her purse in the seat beside her.  
  
"Good idea," he smiled, and pulled his wallet from his jacket pocket to fetch the license. Once he was back in his car it took them several minutes to wend their way through the traffic to the parking lot on the corner where they could deal with the situation and allow the traffic to pass unfettered. The woman got out of her car first and stood back to assess the damage to both their vehicles.  
  
"I hate driving," she grumbled sadly. "But at least the cars still run and neither of us died in public."  
  
Duncan glanced between the automobiles. "The damage isn't too bad," he commented casually. "Just a few dings to knock out." He held out his hand to her in greeting and gave her his name.  
  
"MacKenzie Rose," she said with an embarrassed smile. "You can call me Rose. It's better than the alternative."  
  
"Mac? Yeah, you don't look like a 'Mac' to me," he grinned.  
  
" 'Red' isn't too fun, either." She took a long look at his license before handing it back to him. Suddenly she smiled. "Just think, if I married you I'd be MacKenzie MacLeod. A double Mac."  
  
"Sounds like a hamburger," he chuckled. "Listen, there's a coffee shop down the block here. Why don't we take a little walk down there, sit down at a table and have a cup while we exchange insurance information? You can call your agent from the pay phone there." It was a blatant pickup attempt, and he could tell from her bemused smirk that she knew it.  
  
"Okay, sure," she said after a moment. "I don't feel like driving just now anyway."  
  
Two hours later they were kissing on a park bench in a light sprinkle of rain, and Duncan was smitten. She reluctantly parted with him to return to her car and finish her day's errands, but agreed to meet him for dinner later in the evening, naming a restaurant that he hadn't yet visited.   
  
The rest of the day he spent working out and reading, but his mind was not on those activities and he finally put the book away after drifting off the same paragraph for the third time. He pulled out an old sketch book and a stick of charcoal and drew the likeness that was as familiar to him as his own. Even after nearly 400 years he could still see her clearly, and MacKenzie Rose was Debra's exact double. Her accent was more American than his own, but still tinged with subtle traces of English roots, rather than the heavy Scots Gaelic that his first love had spoken. That and the modern clothing were the only apparent differences, and desire burned brightly in his heart for this newcomer into his life.   
  
Once he had finished the sketch he wandered aimlessly around his loft, looking for something to fill the last few hours before time to leave for his date. He went to his closet, aimlessly searching through the well kept clothes, and suddenly found himself pulling out shirts and slacks and laying them out on his bed, wondering which would be most likely to catch Rose's eye and turn her on. He smiled at himself, shaking his head at the unfamiliar feeling of first date anxiety, and selected a royal blue turtleneck, black jeans and black jacket. Just as he was fastening his hair back with an elastic, the band broke and shot across the large, open room.   
  
He went to the bedside table and opened the closest drawer. Pulling out a length of ribbon, he smoothed his hair back once again and tied it tightly. Slipping into his jacket, he gathered up his keys and headed for the elevator and adventure.

* * *

The Summer House was a more casual restaurant than Duncan was expecting. It reminded him of a country pub, with raw wood floors, heavy oak beams holding up walls and ceiling, and small, cozy tables covered in red and white checkered table cloths where people sat in groups of twos and threes. He waited at the door for Debra to arrive and was surprised to see her bringing another woman with her when she arrived. She introduced the other young woman, Alice Markham, and the three of them made their way to a table set near a corner devoid of furniture except for a tall wooden stool.  
  
The trio sat down and shared a pleasant, simple meal together, and just as they were ordering drinks, Duncan and Rose both sat up a little straighter, glancing around for the Other who was approaching.   
  
'There you are!" said Richie with a broad smile as he made his way closer to their table. "Sorry I was late."  
  
"Late for what?" asked Duncan, moving his chair closer to Rose to give room for Richie to drag up an unused chair from a nearby table.  
  
Richie grinned. "Dinner," he answered casually. Turning to Alice, he leaned over for a brief kiss. "D'ja miss me?'  
  
"I had company," said the young woman with a smile.  
  
"Funny you two should know each other," Duncan mused. "I just met Rose today, and here we all are, old chums already."  
  
"Yeah, it's amazing how things work out," Richie agreed. He couldn't stop smiling.  
Again the warning came, and Duncan turned with the rest of them to look for the stranger coming in the front door. He groaned, pushed back from the table and started to stand, suddenly understanding. Richie grabbed his shoulder and held him down. Rose leaped up from her chair and sat in his lap to make it impossible for him to rise, and Finn MacCool carried his guitar to the makeshift stage and greeted the roomful of patrons with a broad smile.  
  
He sang a host of folk songs, receiving cheers and applause from the crowd of appreciative fans and music mavens while Duncan prepared himself for the inevitable. His friends made sure his wineglass was never empty, and by the time the set drew to a close the Highlander's mood had lightened considerably. He thought he might not even mind the serenade that time.  
  
Rose leaned over with a peculiar smile between songs and reached across his shoulder, gently tugging on a loop of the ribbon in his hair. "I see you've still got it," she said softly where only he could hear.  
  
"What do you mean?" he asked cautiously.  
  
"My hair ribbon. That was me, long ago, Duncan," she confessed with a sly wink. "Finn found me in the village the next week and made my acquaintance, but we lost track of each other till a few weeks ago. He thought it was time for a proper reunion."  
  
Duncan chuckled. "Well, at least I'm not suffering alone anymore," he told her with a light kiss on the lips. "Centuries of embarrassment can weigh heavy after a while."  
  
"Don't I know it," she agreed. "Imagine what it was like for me to know that I'd been seen taking a peek. Times have changed, and I, for one, am glad of it."  
  
Finn started the preamble to his most favorite song and Rose rose with a promise to return after a trip to the powder room. Duncan followed in her wake as the first clarion note of the song poured out of the Irish Immortal's golden throat, and without the notice of the other patrons, the pair slipped out the back door and into the night, chuckling over their history. The final verse of the song followed them into the darkness, and Duncan sang the last line with a downward glance and a vivid flash of memory.  
  
"Come on, Scotsman," Rose invited with a warm laugh. "Let's see if you really deserve that blue ribbon after all." She steered him toward her car and slowly pulled the ribbon from his hair as they walked.

 

FIN

* * *

**_The Scotsman  
_** by Mike Cross  
  
Well, a Scotsman clad in kilt left a bar one evenin' fair  
And one could tell by how he walked that he'd drunk more than his share.  
He fumbled round until he could no longer keep his feet,  
Then he stumbled off into the grass to sleep beside the street.  
  
_Ring-ding-diddle-iddle -eye-de-oh!_  
Ring-die-diddly-eye-oh!  
He stumbled off into the grass to sleep beside the street.  
  
About that time two young and lovely girls just happened by,  
And one says to the other with a twinkle in her eye,  
"See yon sleeping Scotsman, so strong and handsome built?  
I wonder if it's true what they don't wear beneath a kilt!"  
  
_Ring-ding-diddle-iddle -eye-de-oh!_  
Ring-die-diddly-eye-oh!  
I wonder if it's true what they don't wear beneath a kilt...  
  
They crept up on that sleeping Scotsman quiet as could be,  
Lifted up his kilt about an inch so they could see,  
And there behold! for them to view beneath his Scottish skirt  
Was nothin' more than God had graced him with upon his birth.  
  
_Ring-ding-diddle-iddle -eye-de-oh!_  
Ring-die-diddly-eye-oh!  
Was nothin' more than God had graced him with upon his birth.  
  
They marveled for a moment, then one said, "We must be gone.  
Let's leave a present for our friend before we move along."  
As a gift they left a blue silk ribbon tied into a bow  
Around the bonny star the Scot's kilt did lift and show.  
  
_Ring-ding-diddle-iddle -eye-de-oh!_  
Ring-die-diddly-eye-oh!  
Around the bonny star the Scot's kilt did lift and show.  
  
Now the Scotsman woke to Nature's call and stumbled toward the trees.  
Behind the bush he lifts his kilt and gawks at what he sees,  
And in a startled voice he says to what's before his eyes,  
"Well, lad, I don't know where ye been, but I see ye won first prize!"  
  
_Ring-ding-diddle-iddle -eye-de-oh!_  
Ring-die-diddly-eye-oh!  
Ah, Lad, I don't know where ye been, but I see ye won first prize!


End file.
